


Homesick

by ZadieWrites



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Campfires, Crying, Druids, Gen, Homesickness, I made up a druid holiday, Merlin and Mordred platonic bonding, Mordred and Arthur platonic bonding, Mordred is sad, Oh also Lancelot’s alive because I can, Pre Evil Mordred, don’t come for me, this fic also features Arthur being a concerned dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26610901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZadieWrites/pseuds/ZadieWrites
Summary: Mordred wouldn’t trade Camelot for anything, but he can’t help but feel separated from his home culture when it’s a significant druid holiday and he’s unable to celebrate, as he still has to keep who he is a secret.He thinks he can handle it, but the homesickness overwhelms him. Fortunately, Merlin and Arthur are good friends.
Relationships: Merlin & Mordred (Merlin), Mordred & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Homesick

**Author's Note:**

> So I had this idea because I really like the idea of druids having their own culture. I scrawled this out at midnight in one giant, unbetaed burst, so I can’t promise it’s good but I do hope it makes you feel something.

Mordred wouldn’t trade Camelot for anything. 

From the moment he first arrived it was different from his life with the druids in every conceivable way. And he told himself he liked it that way. Until now.

Because today, he woke up in the knights’ chambers, with a strange feeling in his gut. A feeling that something was missing. And slowly, as he became more conscious that morning he realized why.

Today was the Celebration of Fireleaves. The first holiday of autumn in the druid calendar. 

There was something that felt awfully wrong about seeing the knights go about their usual business, waking up early for the patrols, on this day. Mordred felt selfish for feeling that way. Of course his new friends don’t know his holidays. 

But he couldn’t help remembering what it was like to harvest gourds with his family to paint them, climb trees with the druid children because no one worked on the celebration days, and at the end of the day, gather up branches on the ground to make a massive bonfire, which they’d all sing a prayer song around for a long fall and a merciful winter. 

Mordred’s family wasn’t conventional by Camelot standards, he didn’t know who his biological parents were, but that didn’t turn out to be a problem. The druids raised him as a community. Instead of a mother and a father he had a couple dozen aunts and uncles, and saw their children as no less than siblings. He grew up surrounded by love, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life running from those that persecuted them. Because Mordred lost so many people he considered family. Every couple years an aunt, an uncle, a sibling would go missing and never come back. 

Mordred left the druids because he wanted better for his people, because to have magic is to live in fear. 

He just so happened to find a new family on the way.

At present, he couldn’t tell the knights, or Arthur who he really was. Merlin knew, but it didn’t look like he was going to get anywhere with him . . . despite his efforts. 

So Mordred was going to just have to put on a brave face today. Pretend he was okay. 

That seemed easy enough.

_______________________________________

Mordred ended up having to run off the training field to cry later in the day. He’d never had to hide his emotions before but Arthur didn’t like his knights crying and he didn’t want to let him down.

He hid behind a tree, crouched down and buried his face in his knees. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He didn’t even think he was that homesick, he was fine, it wasn’t even the first Celebration he’d missed, he’d spent one with Morgana before.

But then again, Morgana knew who he was and let him celebrate however he wanted. He didn’t have to suppress his culture for her.

Mordred sniffed, feeling his shoulders shake as he wept. He had to pull himself together soon, someone was going to come over here and ask him if he was okay. 

_______________________________________

Merlin and the knights had just watched Mordred take off after training, and not even to go inside, he just disappeared into the wilderness.

“. . . he’s not okay, is he?” Arthur said, his brow furrowing in sincere concern.

“He’s been quiet all morning.” Lancelot pointed out.

“I could go talk to him-“ Arthur started to suggest.

“Uh-“ Merlin opened. “You’re not exactly great at comforting people. I’ll do it.” 

Merlin didn’t trust Mordred, by any means. The druid terrified him to his core. But he did know that Mordred required more emotional connection than Arthur was willing or able to provide. They were both sensitive men, and Merlin understood that about him.

The knights glanced around at each other, then at Merlin. What Merlin thought about Mordred was no secret, so this seemed to surprise them.

“You’re sure you’re up for that, Merlin?” Arthur questioned.

Merlin huffed, stepping off his place on the bench he sat on to watch the knights train. “I’m sure I can manage a hug and a few words.” 

Then he set off to find the boy. 

Fortunately he wasn’t all that hard to find, as he hadn’t gone too deep into the woods, it looked like he basically hid behind the first tree he found. Merlin slowly approached the sobbing ball of limbs that was Mordred, leaves and twigs crunching beneath his boots.

He reached out and softly tapped Camelot’s youngest knight’s shoulder. Mordred looked up, his cheeks red and his pale blue eyes shimmering with tears. 

“W-what are you doing here?” The druid boy asked, his voice low and cracked.

“Arthur was worried about you. Do you wanna talk about what’s wrong? You don’t have to.” Merlin told him.

Merlin could look past the fact he was Mordred, fated to be Arthur’s bane and focus on the fact he was a person in need of comfort. That’s why he sat down next to him, and gently put an arm around the druid’s shoulder and let him lean against him.

_______________________________________

Mordred wanted to ask him why he was doing this, if this was a ploy and he was going to do something mean right when he began to accept the comfort but he really did like the touch so he just trusted the servant against his better judgment. The druids had always been very physically affectionate, and he’d sort of been starving for that here. Besides. Merlin may have been cold but he wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t play mind games. 

That’s why he let himself lean into Merlin’s chest. 

“. . . today’s the Celebration of Fireleaves. It’s a significant holiday among the druids.” Mordred admitted, wiping tears off his cheeks. 

“Oh,” Merlin said, in a tone that indicated he understood. “I know how you feel. Back in Ealdor we’d have big harvest days around this time and we’d all work the fields and collect what we grew . . . it was hard work but . . . the fact that we did it together, and we’d talk, or sing, all the while, made it not feel as hard.” 

Mordred nodded. He liked hearing Merlin talk to him so openly like this. Maybe the two would eventually grow to stop being such a mystery to one another. He really did want Merlin to like him.

“What are you going to tell Arthur?” Mordred asked.

“I’ll tell him you’re tired and dehydrated.”

“If you do that, he’ll make me take the day off, you know how he acts about the health of his men. I don’t want that.”

“Then I’ll figure something else out. Now do you want to stay here or are you ready to go back?” The tone Merlin used was surprisingly gentle. It made Mordred feel looked after. 

“I can go back.” He replied, sniffling and rubbing off the last of the tears. 

Merlin nodded and stood up, brushing off his trousers, and holding out his hand for Mordred to grab onto. 

_______________________________________

The rest of the day went by reasonably uneventfully, although Mordred still found himself quieter and sadder than usual. He had to actively fight back against the autumnal memories that played in his head. Memories of crying as a small child because it snowed early on the day they were supposed to be celebrating fall. Memories of accidentally falling in an ice cold September river while climbing a tree and the bonfire most likely being all that saved him from having to lose some appendages. He nearly gave his aunt a heart attack. Memories of being a boy of around fourteen, starting to get his first feelings for girls (and boys) and painting Kara’s likeness on a pumpkin as a romantic gesture. And then one of his foster brothers laughing at him because of it.

At dinner he didn’t eat much. After dinner he snuck out into the night. He at least wanted to follow one tradition . . .

The guards didn’t bother or stop him. Usually when a knight leaves the castle, guards tend to assume they’re doing something important. That was one benefit of his rank.

Mordred headed outside of the citadel, and tread into the woods. Then, in the shade of the trees at night, the only light being a cloudy half moon . . . he started gathering some pieces of wood. Obviously the fire wasn’t going to be as big as it would in the druid camps he used to inhabit, but it was the symbol that mattered.

He scraped dried up leaves and brush and weeds off the ground, clearing a spot. Then he built his fire. After he had himself a humble little pile of sticks and branches, he muttered a fire spell to ignite it. 

Whoosh. 

The pile rumbled as it became alight with deep orange flames. 

Mordred sat down in front of the fire, and looked around him, trying to connect with nature before he began the prayer song. The breeze chilled all in its path and made the dying ferns bend and ripple like water. Squirrels and mice and rats could be heard scuffling around, collecting food for the winter ahead. He thought he heard the call of an owl. He tipped his head back. The branches of the trees above clawed at a night sky dappled with starlight.

“Mordred!” The druid heard a familiar and loud voice call, making him startle, his heart skipping multiple beats.

He whipped around, scrambling onto his feet before bumping right into the hard, broad chest of the king of Camelot himself.

“I’ve been looking for you! I wanted to check on you and the guards told me you left the castle.” Arthur told him.

Arthur had his armor and chainmail off so he was currently just wearing a red tunic tucked into his trousers, and he held a sword in one hand, a torch in the other. 

“What’s the sword for?” Mordred asked.

“I didn’t know what I’d encounter here-Mordred, you know these are the hours bandits are most active and bold, right?” His tone was relieved but insistently concerned, stern even.

“. . . yes, sire.” he confessed. 

“Sometimes I think you don’t think I care about you.” The king told him, a sort of compassionate sadness in his eyes, which were blue as the feathers of a jay. 

“I apologize.”

“Look, I do trust you to make good decisions, and I know you can defend yourself, and I don’t want to micromanage you, but Merlin told me you lost a pet recently and that’s why you were crying today, so I was concerned about what you were doing-what are you doing anyway?” Arthur said, glancing at his fire.

“. . . I needed a place to think.” 

“I’m sorry if I interrupted. Take this and I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” The older man told him, holding out his sword. 

Mordred hesitantly took the hilt into his hand. “Actually . . . Can you stay? Just for a bit-I know you have a wife probably waiting for you.”

“. . . of course.” Arthur nodded. 

Mordred sat back down next to the fire and Arthur sat down next to him, their shoulders brushing up against each other.

Mordred pulled something out of his pocket. It was a small, two pronged wood wind instrument, similar to the flute but known only to the druids. 

“What . . . is that?” The king questioned.

Mordred didn’t respond and started playing it. The sound was sharper and clearer and higher than that of the flute. And he started to play the traditional prayer song of the Fireleaves.

The gentle tones rang out in the night, bouncing off the trunks of the trees as the last of the year’s crickets chirped and the fire in front of them crackled and spat brilliantly colored sparks out into the air.

Mordred could hear Arthur’s steady breathing beside him, feel his heartbeat, and the two men sat in silence that night, until the fire was nothing but embers, long after Mordred had finished that song. 

Poor Guinevere.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I love y’all, as with all my Merlin fics criticism is unwelcome, and I do apologize for it not ending as happily as it could have.


End file.
